Boy's Night Out
by Nora Lou
Summary: Henry takes Frank out for a night of relaxation.


Boy's Night Out

By

Nora Lou Wilson

And

Rebecca S. Smithey

_Blue Bloods _is the exclusive property of CBS, and no copyright infringement is intended. The events of this story take place a few weeks after "_Dedication_". The group mentioned in this story is a real group, and one song in particular, "_The Streets of New York"_ fits really well in the Reagan world. We suggest you go on YouTube and give it a listen!

Police Commissioner Francis Reagan nodded silently to his aide, and then climbed into the back of his ever-present escort vehicle, a glistening black SUV. "Let's go home," he told the driver. He leaned back against the seat, loosened his tie and closed his eyes.

_Good Lord, I'm tired_…A thick folder of take-home paperwork that Baker had carried down from his office sat on the leather seat beside him, begging his attention. He ignored it.

The reading material only reminded him of how little he had actually accomplished today. He had spent the entire day haggling with all the other city officials over budgets. Then he had to work out the permits for the city's upcoming St. Patrick's Day celebration, less than two weeks away now. _It's gonna take a miracle from St. Pat himself to get all the details ironed out in time._

He winced slightly as the SUV went across a pothole that jarred his wounded shoulder. His schedule for the last few days had not allowed him the time to do even the minimum amount of physical therapy his doctor had recommended, and the muscles of his shoulder and upper back felt twisted and raw.

When the SUV crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, he began to allow himself the small luxury of anticipating a quiet, peaceful night at home with a corned beef sandwich and the game on ESPN. He would have to double up on the paperwork tomorrow, but what the hell…

The Reagan house sat near the end of the street in a modestly up-scale, historic district of Brooklyn. When the house had first been purchased, it had come with a heavy mortgage and a long list of "to-do" chores. The mortgage had finally been paid, and over the last few years he and his father had been able to get a lot of the remodeling done during off hours, week-ends and long holidays…unless both of them were on duty.

After his father had retired, Pop had taken over most of the upkeep, but Francis looked forward to the end of the brutal winter so he could get the mower out of the shed. _I love the smell of new-mown grass_.

Frank was thinking of all this as the SUV swung into the driveway of his home. Dismissing Baker and the rest of his escort detail for the night, he grabbed the work then swung his six-feet-plus frame out of the back seat.

Frank stepped onto the back stoop and through the door into the comfortable kitchen. Despite himself, he instinctively looked around the room for Mary, his wife. Even though she had been gone for almost two years now, he wasn't sure he would ever stop looking for her.

He picked up the mail from the small table just inside the door and flipped through it. Nothing of real importance, other than the latest newsletter from his parish church nearby.

He had just started to make himself a sandwich when his father, Henry, came into the room.

"Oh, good, you're home," his father said. "Go change your clothes. We're going out."

Frank sighed. "Pop, I'm too tired. Maybe some other time, okay?"

"Nonsense," his father said. Henry reached up to the top of the fridge, opened a small wooden box and pulled out four slips of paper. "I scored four tickets to _The Wolfe Tones_ at Connolly's tonight. Danny and Jamie are meeting us there."

Frank stared at his father for a moment in complete surprise. _The Wolfe Tones_ had always been his favorite Celtic band. "What's the occasion, Pop?"

"Let's just say I'm celebrating my son not getting killed a few weeks ago."

Frank nodded, and then turned to go upstairs to change, his exhaustion forgotten. _I can always double up on the paperwork tomorrow…I won't deny Pop this…_

Connolly's was one of his favorite restaurants in town, an honest-to-God Irish pub and restaurant. In actuality, the restaurant had four different locations, but the best venue for their concerts was the spot on W. 45th Street in Midtown, near Times Square.

When he got back downstairs, Henry had already called a cab. A trip to Connolly's always meant a pint or two, and neither of them would want – or need – to drive after that. As the cabbie drove them back across the Brooklyn Bridge, Frank took a moment to enjoy the view of the city – _his_ city from the bridge. No matter how many times he looked at her, New York City could stir something in him almost like a seductive woman. And she was his...

When he and his father pulled themselves from the back of the cab, and while Henry paid the fare, Frank could see Jamie and Danny waiting just inside the door, each of them with a pint of Guinness in hand.

When the hostess at the front recognized him, she called the owner up (over Frank's objections), and then the four of them were shown to a table near the front of the dining room. As they wound through the crowded room, Frank spoke to several friends who had also made it here tonight. "Hello, Richard," he said, shaking hands with the best-selling mystery writer. Frank had no idea how the man had managed to parlay a friendship with the mayor into an unpaid consulting job with one of the best homicide squads in the NYPD.

A little further in, he embraced an old friend from his early days as a detective. "Good to see you, Robert," he said. "It's been a long time."

"Francis, it's good to see you," the older man said. His crisp British accent, even after decades of living in the U.S., was still strong. 'We're all glad you made it through the shooting." The two men had met when Robert, who described himself as a "retired civil servant", had been involved in a shooting where Frank was the senior detective. Robert had turned out to have an international carry permit, and a job taking care of other people's "problems". Their paths had crossed several times over the years since, and they _were_ friends, but Frank couldn't say for sure that he even really knew the man. Robert had always wrapped himself in an aura of mystery like a blanket.

At the table, Frank, Henry and the two boys ordered their meals as they each nursed a pint of Guinness. While Jamie and Pop ordered the classic Shepherd's Pie, Frank chose the Beef Stew, while Danny ordered the Bangers and Mash. The food, as always, was excellent, and they wolfed their food down with enthusiasm.

Frank even began to feel himself relax a little. When his father asked, "Enjoyin' yourself, Francis?" His smile was genuine and unforced. "Sure, Pop."

Hank put a hand on his shoulder. "Haven't I been tellin' you that you needed to unwind a little bit?" A shadow of a memory flashed across his father's eyes. "Life is short, son. We all need to unwind some. It's been a helluva couple of years."

After dinner and a wonderful dessert, followed by coffee…and another pint of Guinness, they made their way upstairs to Club 54. By the time that Tommy Byrne, Brian Warfield and Noel Nagle took the stage, there was a definite air of Irish pride in the room. With St. Patrick's Day so close, the atmosphere was jovial. The music was less a concert than an old-fashioned sing-a-long. Most of the people in attendance knew the words to every song as much as Frank did, and he had loosened up (or the Guinness had loosened him up) enough that he gladly sang along with everyone else.

Jamie took a swig of his Guinness and listened to the other men of his family as they sang. Danny had a sort of boy band, hip-hop kind of voice that found the beat beneath the words and followed it. His father had a smooth baritone voice, but it was his grand-father whose singing voice never failed to amaze him. Also a baritone, there were shades and shadows in his voice that gave it real power. _He could have sung on Broadway_, Jamie thought.

For Frank, the evening was a chance to relax and listen to some music that he had not had the chance to hear in a very long time. He had all their records – even some on a CD player in his bedroom – but he rarely had the leisure time anymore to just sit and listen to music at night. He realized that he missed that sort of thing.

Right before intermission, Tommy Bryne stepped up to the mike. "Everybody havin' a fine time?"

The cheers and applause echoed around the room. "We're gonna take a wee break in just a minute, and we won't be gone long, but we've got one more song for you before we go." Tommy looked around the room. "We understand that the Police Commissioner for the great city of New York, Frank Reagan, is in the audience tonight."

Henry stole a look at his son, who hated being singled out most of the time. Frank was shaking his head.

"We're gonna do one of our hits," Brian continued, "and tonight, it's dedicated to all the men and women who wear the badge here in this great city." With that, they began to perform _The Streets of New York._

"_I was 18yrs old when  
>I went down to Dublin with a fistful<br>Of money and a cartload of dreams."_

As the first notes of the song began on the Irish flute, Frank looked around the room. There were more than a few familiar faces of police officers in the bar, and he thought he knew why. During the potato famine that had driven so many Irish to the shores of this country, Irishmen found that very few jobs were available to them. Full of dreams of a better life, instead they had been confronted by signs in shop windows of Boston, New York and many other cities that read: _No Irish Need Apply._

They had, however, been welcomed into the ranks of the fire and police departments across the country – so much so that the idea of the Irish New York cop was a comic stereotype. The people Frank saw sitting here tonight were each and every one of them descendants of that first wave of Irish immigration.

_"Take your time" said me father  
>Stop rushing like hell and remember<em>

_all is not what it seems to be._

_For there's fellas would cut ye for the coat on yer back  
>Or the watch that you got from your mother<em>

_so take care me young bucko  
>And mind yourself well <em>

_and will ya give this wee note to me brother?"_

There had also been successive generations of Irish men and women who had come into the city and found that many doors had been broken down for them by those first brave souls who had come through Ellis Island. _The first person to walk through the doors of Ellis Island had been a young Irish girl, _Frank thought to himself.

_"At the time Uncle Benjy was a policeman in Brooklyn.  
>And me father the youngest, looked after the farm.<br>When a phone call from America said  
>'Send the lad over'<br>And the oul fella said 'Sure wouldn't do any harm'._

_For I've spent my life working this dirty old ground  
>for a few pints of porter and the smell of a pound.<br>And sure maybe there's something you'll learn or you'll see  
>And you can bring it back home - make it easy on me.<em>

_So I landed at Kennedy and a big yellow taxi  
>Carried me and me bags through the streets and the rain.<br>Well, me poor heart was thumpin' around with excitement  
>And I hardly even heard what the driver was sayin'.<br>We came in the Shore Parkway to the flatlands in Brooklyn,  
>to me Uncle's apartment on East 53<em>_rd__.  
>I was feeling so happy I was humming a song<em>

_and I sang "You're as free as a bird"._

_Well to shorten the story_

_what I found out that day_

_was that Benjy got shot down in an uptown foray._

_and while I was flying my way to New York,  
>Poor ole Benjy was lying in a cold city morgue."<em>

Some of those Irish men and women who had come to New York had also paid the price for wearing the blue uniform. The wall of heroes had more than a few Irish names on it, along with Greek, Arabic, African American, Hispanic, Jewish, and many other races and creeds. Frank prided himself on the decades of progress made within the ranks, and as he looked at his father, he knew that Henry had been responsible for some of those changes. _He tries to play the role of an old, irascible codger…_Frank thought. _But the history of this city says otherwise…_

_"Well, I phoned up the old fella - _

_told him the news.  
>I could tell he could<br>Hardly stand up in his shoes. _

_And he wept as he told me,  
>'Go ahead with the plans<br>And not to forget be a proud Irish man'._

_So I went up to Nellies beside Fordham Road_

_and I started to learn about lifting the load.  
>But the heaviest thing that I carried that year<br>Was the bittersweet thought of my hometown so dear…  
>I went home that December 'cause the oul fella died -<br>had to borrow the money from a fella on the side.  
>And all the bright flowers and brass couldn't hide<br>the poor wasted face of me father._

_I sold up the oul farmyard for what it was worth,_

_and into my bag stuck a handful of earth._

_Then I boarded a train and I caught me a plane,  
>and I found myself back in the US again.<br>It's been 22 years since  
>I've set foot in Dublin.<br>Me kids know to use the correct knife and fork.  
>But I'll never forget the green grass and the rivers<br>As I keep law and order in the streets of New York."_

Frank led the ovation that followed the song, knowing that the applause was less for him (although he felt the heat of the spotlight) than for the countless numbers of men and women who had worn the uniform over the years. He was suddenly filled with an overwhelming sense of pride in the people who worked for him and that they had chosen him to lead them.

As he sat back down, Frank noticed more than one cop attempting to hide the fact that they were blowing their noses and wiping their eyes. One sergeant from the 127th, a female with the last name of O'Phelan, was crying openly and unashamedly. Even the irascible old codger's voice, was gruff when he asked if anyone was ready for another round.

Henry called the server back over. "Five Guinness, please."

"Coming right up."

"Pop, if you can't count any better than…" Frank broke off as he began to realize what his father was doing. He looked around and saw that the wait staff was bringing an extra drink to every table around them as well.

Then, as each table was served, one by one the customers stood and toasted fallen companions. Silence fell. After a short pause, the crowd broke into the overly-loud, overly-cheerful celebration of the evening once more and the second half of the concert began.

Frank had needed this. He was glad he had come, if for no other reason than to be here, at this time. He wrenched his attention back to the stage as the Wolfe Tones started playing another song. He lifted his glass and drank deeply of Guinness and satisfaction.

4

BNO


End file.
